lostcarnival | ⇨ THE MASQUERADE

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⇨ THE MASQUERADE

Who: Everyone! Attendance is mandatory.
When: Late Day 65
Where: The Celebration
What: The Masquerade arrives, and so does the carnival's enemies. For more info, check out the Draculas 101.
Warnings: Further party hell. Also, vampire violence, mind control, etc.

THE HOST & THE HORDE↴

The time of the Masquerade arrives. You've been given free reign of the place up till now, but a few hours before the party commences the Host will inform you that your presence will be required, and will assist you (forcibly, if need be) to sort out any last minute costuming concerns you might have if you've left it until now. When masks and outfits are sorted, you'll be left to your own devices until you are summoned on the evening of Day 65.

The Masquerade will start off normally - relative to everything else in this place, at least. Everyone in the Celebration will be called in for this event, centered in a grand hall with side rooms offered to those that need them for whatever reasons might come up. The food and drink is especially ambrosia-esque this evening, and the music will stir your soul, even if you're not usually a music person. Enjoy it if you can - the peace won't last.

► MASKS: Though the masks seemed only mundane before, once within the Masquerade atmosphere, they will magically begin obscuring people's identities beyond what a normal mask should be able to do. When a person is wearing one, it would be supernaturally difficult to figure out who they are - maybe you forget what their voice should sound like, or maybe the other details escape you. Of course, it's possible to figure out if you look for it, based on general shapes and personality traits, but unless you know someone well it could be a challenge. Of course, you can just take your mask off and remove the enchantment entirely - though the Host will hassle you if they notice you going without. Stop ruining the party!

► TEMPTATION: Though it's felt easy to be whisked away by the draw of pleasure and luxury during the rest of the week, that feeling will seem to come to a head at the actual party. If you are aware of what needs to be resisted then it's possible to fight back and ignore it, but more than ever it feels all too easy to just dance your life away. Nobody seems to be dying from it, at least, or 'burning out' any faster as a result - it's mostly just extremely distracting from other concerns. Like vampires, for instance.

VAMPIRE: THE MASQUERADE↴
It's during the latter half of the party that things will start to go bad. Though it will go unseen by the carnival, the Masquerade has gained an additional set of guests - the vampire's of the demon lord that has been chasing them for the last several months. The Host doesn't discriminate, and anyone is welcome to attend the Celebration, provided they don't start a fight.

Right. About that.

► THE KINDRED: The vampires don't like to play fair, which means that they are going to be attacking with stealth and trickery - taking advantage of the way that the party has dulled the alertness of many of the carnival's workers. They'll be using that lack of inhibition to lure individuals into places they can be attacked or turned in private - their primary goals are to capture the Supervisors and to turn as many of the Ringmaster's workers as possible before escaping back to their dimension. Some of their targets will be gone before anyone has a chance to notice.

Remembering that they will be avoiding big public confrontations, so if anyone starts one of those it will probably by the carnival members striking back. This is going to wear on the Host's patience extremely quickly.

► COLD IRON: Oh, right, and they are definitely bringing iron weapons - as pure as they could get. They'll have things like iron collars or shackles to try to trap people with, as well as iron daggers and guns with iron bullets. They'll have to be on the down low with, but they are going to exploit that weakeness as much as possible. Those that have only been in the carnival a few months will mostly just feel discomfort at the touch of it - as if they are touching something that is slightly too hot or too cold. Veterans that have been around for years will find its touch to be burningly cold - the type of temperature that would threaten to destroy flesh after prolonged contact. Those that have been here for up to three years will take it the worst. See the Transformations page for more details!

► TURNING THE TABLES: Being turned is a mixture of pleasure and pain, and is often hard for mortals to mentally reconcile as it happens to them. Being drained by these vampires is simultaneously impossibly satisfying and extremely terrifying - once they've started in on your, the way it overwhelms your mind and body can make it nearly impossible to stop them without help. Once you are dead or dying, they will feed you their blood - at which point your body will go through a painful transformation as the demon spirit takes its place inside of you and your dead body is violently resurrected.

As soon as you wake up, freshly changed, the bloodlust will set it - it will be extremely hard to control, and at first all you will think about is wanting to sate that hunger. Combined with your sire having direct control if your mind through your blood connection, new vampires will be mostly incapable of doing anything but following the whims of the rest of the vampire pack and seeking nourishment. This blood lust will begin to fade after they've fed. Killing isn't necessary to feed, but it can be hard to stop yourself, as a neonate vampire.

► CLOSING TIME: Before the party is officially over, the Host will have had enough. Before you can pursue all of the vampires or take back the people they've stolen, the lot of them will have escaped back to their dimension, and the Host will have kicked the entire carnival out for participating in so much violence. If you want to make any final moves before you go, this is the time.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He's... confused, honestly. He's still trying to process Sophie's presence at all; the possibility of meeting someone else from his world had seemed so mathematically remote--the odds were so objectively infinitesimal as to be impossible, the further chances of it being someone he knew personally.... he'd completely disregarded it. He's also still trying to recover his thoughts from the moment just seconds before, and adjust them to this moment now. Abrupt tone shifts are not unheard of from him, but now the cause is not internal but external..]

I.. ah--

[The force needed to stem the dead flow of blood isn't insubstantial, but the gratuitous application of pain is--

He winces visibly. Behind the mask, it's impossible to tell what kind of facial expression accompanies that.

But it's Sophie, so if anyone knows him well enough to guess, she has a pretty good shot.

And the pain gives him a distraction--a consistency from a point neither Here nor There, and he manages at least an answer, thought it's vague and cryptic as he often is. His tone is hollow, distracted in that desperate, breathless way he has; he's miles away.]

...repaying a debt.

[Sophie frowns and rolls her eyes, an annoyed hrmph accompanying the expression. Of course he would be like this right now. Eye contact was not really a normalcy between them, so the fact that she'd been staring him down for the past few moments is notable. Finally though her gazed drops down to focus on Foster's hand. She leans in again, pushing down on his hand, clearly intentional this time. It's a small weird gesture of affection, although no one besides the two of them would know.]

No shit Sherlock, I mean like...What's your contract? How'd you get here?

[That nagging, sneaking suspicion won't leave her gut, and she doesn't like feelings that linger inside like that, so she bites the bullet and adds one more question.]

When'd you get here?

[That might be too vague. He might give her an answer that doesn't tell her what she's looking for and well. Maybe she's okay with that. At least for a few more moments.]

Edited 2017-03-08 19:48 (UTC)

[The intense, sustained staring thing she's doing is disorienting him. He looks people in the eye only for specific purpose, and the rest of the time he makes it a point not to. She only stares him in the eye so fixedly when she's--

...ah.]

I just told you.

[He sounds crabby, but it's the questions she's asking he dislikes, not who's asking them. He doesn't want to talk about this at all; his shock at the sight of Sophie is already over. His mind has moved on to other things. He squirms in her grasp, pulling her hand towards him--it's not to escape the pain, though; it's the exact opposite.

If he could melt into that pain, merge with it, drink it like liquor--]

I don't want to talk about that.

[A second, more troubled hrmph of air. Did that mean he wasn't here by choice? He'd been conned in or something? It either meant that, or he'd asked for something he didn't want her to know about. IF that was the case, it bothered her. It's just a hypothetical, and she can't even really nail down why it should even matter. They weren't each other's confidants or anything like that. But this was the whole problem she'd been trying to avoid this...THIS. This being UPSET and INVESTED in them and the inevitable clear truth that it's just her that's like this.

He doesn't want to talk about it? Yeah well she honestly really doesn't want to be talking to him. And yet it doesn't occur to her to walk away. This is happening, and he is here, and she is going to have to deal with it. If she could abandon the carnival entirely, she'd be out in a second but that is...not even remotely an option. Ring Master wasn't likely to take 'jk nvm I'm having boy problems' as a valid reason to void a contract.

She grinds her teeth, pulls her hand off his, and turns fully towards the table. She starts ripping a long strip from the hem of the table cloth.]

Fine. At least tell me what was going on back in our world when you found this place though.

[Quit beating around the bush get the answer get it over with.]

[Oh. Is that all she wanted? Foster is more than happy to give her that information.]

You'd just come back from that thing in Poland, with the bishop.

[It's only because it's so recent that he can recall this particular event so quickly. Bookended as it is by his own death and an involuntary transdimensional fae contract, you'd think it wouldn't be so hard, but your brain isn't riddled with rot and literal holes, like a sieve for disease. Memory is not Foster's friend; he loses large chunks of time, major events, and the order of things on a regular basis. So it's a rare courtesy, taking the effort to consider what would have been more pertinent to Sophie's memory than--from his perspective--the grander scheme of events as he remembers them.

With his hand released, he gestures freely, his gaze roaming off somewhere to the side.]

I don't know much of what happened after I achieved my revival--if there was anything important, I've probably missed it! I was still trying to figure out if I could leave the house.

[Punch in the gut, sinking feeling, cold knot in her stomach. All that kind of stuff was bullshit. What she's feeling right now is...dull acceptance. She's not even sad, (really, definitely, of course not). There's not anger, which almost surprises her. There's not really much of anything. This is just how it is.

She ran away because she's not sure she could deal with Foster not being invested in her as much as she was in him, and well. Now it's going to be impossible to avoid finding out. It's not that they weren't close by then. They were remarkably compatible and it didn't take long to figure that out at all, but. There'd been a shift, a slow and terrible change between them in those months that she has but he's missing. They'd only basically JUST started living together from his point of view. They might not have agreed on it at all even...

So, decision time. What's she say about it? Tell him she's from ~the future~? Pretend she's not? Not bother bringing it up? A good thing about Foster is that he almost certainly wasn't going to ask about it himself, but she might just want it to be out there. Not dump everything on him duh, that was, it's why, like. UGH It wasn't fair to bring all this up to her current Foster, and even less to this one. But yeah. Be upfront. When has she ever done anything else?

She turns her head to the side while she thinks this over, scanning over the party scene. When she's at the end of her thoughts she grabs a martini from a passing waiter, flicks the olive out somewhere behind her, (it hits somebody in the back of the head but they obviously didn't see where it came from), and grabs Foster's wrist again, turning his mauled hand palm side up. She pours a generous portion onto the hole, then dabs at it with her makeshift bandage before turning it over and repeating the process on the other side.]

The answer is sorta. You don't get out much, but it's not like you're under house arrest. You pass for 'living but probably kind of ill' well enough that it's not a big issue.

[His flesh might be dead, but the nerves--well, they're also dead. The only reason he feels pain at all is his own magical command. Either way, choosing to speak after dumping the alcohol on his hand was probably a mistake. The instant it hits his open wound, he shivers visibly with suppressed ^agony_delight at the spasm of exposed flesh and searing, eating pain. It's a sensation that starts at the top of his scalp with a prickling like a thousand needles and shudders down through his body as his hand burns.

Even after the initial searing moments of pain, the effects linger: a faint tingling sensitivity, especially over his lower ribs; a hot sting inside his hand as the alcohol content of the intended beverage does its work; a state of basic arousal that Sophie of all people really should have expected.

He does hear her, but only belatedly; at that point, her answer is a lot less interesting to him, and he doesn't really bother to acknowledge it.]

[The reaction is expected, she just hadn't thought all the way through the action. As is fairly common for her. She has a reason she's doing this, and thinks very little about how Foster is going to react, except that she knows the rougher she is with treatment the less he will complain about it. It's something of a routine for her, taking charge of his ~~self~~care, and shutting down his protests of such. Her next move is to tie the cloth strip tightly around his hand. She'll double it up with a second layer in a second, and at some point they should probably get some gauze for it? He really ought to have stitches probably but whatever.

The silence is also not out of place, and even if it was abnormal she probably wouldn't notice it. 'Motormouth' is insufficient to describe what happens when Sophie really gets talking. And right now talking is honestly much better than having to think about all this so here come The Words.]

I'm from a few months later. Well like, closer to a year I guess. You didn't seem suddenly any different, after that trip, so I guess for my world you? Never went to the carnival? I don't know anybody whose really dealt with something like that so I don't know what to tell you. Grant and Chip are doing good, and no undead enforcement squad officers have busted down my door yet so there's that.

[The fact that she just effective admitted that he's living at her place doesn't really occur to her. It was just a...summary of events on her end without getting into any real Situational Details.]

Edited 2017-03-11 22:03 (UTC)

[Sophie's penchant for filling silences without concern for reciprocation is part of what makes it easy for Foster to exist in the space next to her. He doesn't mind talking--in fact, a lot of what she says can be interesting--but he dearly minds the requirement to respond.

He struggles to follow what she's saying now, though.

For several reasons. His eyes are still a little glazed, and his mind is definitely elsewhere. On the pain, and how much more he wants it. On the tight pressure of his crude bandaging. On cravings of physical nature. On a question she's inadvertently raised. And she's presenting him with a lot of information that isn't immediately relevant nor entirely asked for.

But it's mostly the concept of 'the future'--the actual existence of a future for him, one in which he is alive and even somehow both known and relevant--that he's a bit delayed to digest.

Being alive (or undead, anyway) still hasn't really sunk in yet. He'd only just begun to appreciate its reality--a reality in which he was neither dead nor in imminent decay--when he was involuntarily contracted to the carnival.]

--okay?

[His answer comes out somewhat blank.

But she's shot herself in the foot in more ways than one. It's only a few more seconds before he appends something else.]

I'd have been more concerned about vampires coming to break down my door, to be honest.

...but good to know.

Edited 2017-03-15 19:01 (UTC)

[*RECORD SCRATCH NOISE*]

[Sophie is rigid and still for a long moment while she contemplates how much of an idiot she really is. She was just thinking about how he might not even know they're living together and then she goes off and just sorta SAYS it. Fuck, shit okay so. Jfc she's an idiot. Right okay, this wasn't as bad as she's worried it is though. This Foster is from a time where they're whole...domesticity thing would cause a freaking total implosion. But just living together, he's literally from the time where he'd said yes to that. Although they hadn't really ever had an invitation and acceptance thing, it had just sort of happened. The point is though that the idea could easily seem plausible and unremarkable to him if she just went with it like how it actually started out. Convenient and casual, like everything else they did. She can do that.

She may have ran away explicitly because she wasn't sure she could do that actually, but Living with it full time was different than just describing it. So she'll just uhh, have to avoid THIS Foster too until she gets her head on straight. God shitting fuck, she should have known that nothing at the carnival could be as easy breezy beautiful as it had seemed like at first. She is an Idiot, capitol i.]

Oh uh, you never really move out after Poland. [Shrug. Normal shrug definitely.] Just more convenient this way than you traipsing back and forth. Specially now that you have to sort of wear at least some clothes cause of the- [She draws her finger across her neck and makes an exaggerated schhhhck noise.]

[Convenient...

Her choice of words gives him pause as he turns that over in his head. Convenient.

His physical existence has only two benefits to Sophie: sustenance and sex. The onus of living with someone--something--like him would be alleviated at least in part, by the elimination of his own physical needs. Food. Sleep.

Without that, he's one step closer to his ideal.]

--so I'm your live-in sex toy.

[It's an idea that would appeal to him no matter what his current state of physical arousal. Being objectified and used is all he's ever wanted. If Foster could be said to have anything like ambition... well, maybe ambition is a poor term.

It's his dream.

Or perhaps, right now, 'fantasy' would be a better term.]

That sounds.... ideal.

[He doesn't clarify who it is ideal for.

In truth, he means both of them. But--]

[Sophie clenches her jaw, draws her lips tight. The left edge of her mouth stretches backwards, shifting her whole mouth sideways. She's trying not to frown, an action she is thoroughly unfamiliar with. What's worse she can't really just Fake it by smiling either. She doesn't want to smile about this. Not now, and she wouldn't have just after Poland either.

She hadn't known that's how he thought about it initially. She should have guessed, could have guessed to be honest, but as usual she wasn't the best at remembering to consider other people's thought processes. She did with Foster more often than with other people, partially because of how unusual he was, and partially because she knew she DID understand him better than most. But even when she wasn't actively trying to puzzle out how he arrived at some conclusion, the idea that he had his own motives, just like everyone else slipped into the background.

The worst part though is that she's not sure he doesn't still think about it that way with her. Her whole THING was respecting his person-hood. Advocating simultaneously that she'll treat him how he wants BECAUSE being defective and emotionally deficient doesn't make his desires not matter. Her thoughts almost start careening into the 17 car pileup that was common whenever she tried to think about foster lately, so she cuts off that thought as soon as possible. It was a feedback loop to getting paralyzed and she couldn't afford that right now.

But it hurts, and unlike him, she can't just not feel that hurt. Which was the problem-

AUGH!

Her teeth grind. She downs her drink, then searches for another and takes a hefty swign of that one too.]

Yeah it's been going good.

[And it's not a lie. Okay bullshit it is a lie it's not going good NOW, but it had been for a while so shut up. As the booze settles in her stomach she feels what she knows to be the oncoming haze and comforting escape of drunkenness. She does manage that smile after all.]

[The more he thinks about it, the more he likes it. The more the excitement in him manifests in something he can feel. Where before he was disconnected and disoriented, suddenly he's burning with a need to know. 'Going good.' Going good? It's frustratingly nonspecific.

He wants to know--wants to know what she does with him, what she does to him, what he does for her, what is it like--? What is it like to experience the ideal--to be used, fully and at every desired opportunity? A reality, and not a bitter fascimile of it, as his contract to the Carnival.

It does answer a question he hadn't really 'asked' yet--he knows now, to at least some degree, just how functional his body is. He hadn't really tested it. There's been no opportunity, no desire... well, maybe there was, in a sense. But Atlantis isn't really relevant; his entire lower body was 90% of a whale, that doesn't tell him anything except that whales have, apparently, extremely flexible genitalia.

Regardless, Foster's perspective-taking ability is significantly weaker than Sophie's. In this regard, she has to do a lot of heavy lifting between them--they failed spectacularly at anticipating each other for a while, and it was Sophie who laid out the problem in a way Foster too could see.

It doesn't occur to him to see her sudden heavy ingestion of alcohol as anything other than 'drinking: the verb.' It does occur to him to ask a question: a question he's asked her dozens of times before. Casually. Pointedly. By text. In person. By phone.

It goes like this:]

Are you hungry?

[Foster's more intense obliviousness to any non-surface meaning actions might have is honestly a reason Sophie enjoys his company so much. (Under normal non temporally fucked circumstances anyway.) She doesn't have to worry about what her actions might be saying, either in that they're giving her away, or that they're saying something she doesn't mean. In so many ways, she can really relax around Foster, and it's a relief. Not something most people can say. It's something she hasn't really noticed or thought about. Something that, if she did notice, would stack with her other worries about becoming dependent on his presence. It's just one more way she naturally and unconsciously relaxes her guard around him. Something that she'll sorely miss when she finds herself without it.

As preoccupied as she is, as slow as the week long bender has left her thoughts, and as dense as she ever is keeps her from automatically understanding their little shorthand. She answers quickly, truthfully, and with enough desire that even Foster could pick up on it.]

Oh man yeah. This place has just about everything, but seen all the solid food around and not getting to have any is. Uuuhhg.

[She thinks about that cheesecake she saw yesterday. Holy shit she misses cheesecake. Feeling full from blood to shove that craving aside is definitely an attractive thought. And then it's other meaning between them catches up with her. Oh right.

She....really really shouldn't. Like she knows she shouldn't. But her mind and her stomach are thinking about blood now. About how it's been a bit too long since her last real meal. About how drinking on an empty stomach was bad after all, (not that that had stopped her the rest of the week). About how she could always say she wasn't up for their normal post feeding routine later. And wait okay. Why exactly shouldn't she? Like, it's clear she shouldn't she KNOWS there's some reason. But it's just?? Not really coming to mind? Where'd it go.... Feeding and Fucking between them was....well it's what they DID. Its the part of their relationship that's easy and simple and good god man he's got a READY MADE HOLE in his hand perfect for leeching off of.

mmMMggmmhgmmm. Hell, she'd already said yes and whatever the reason for her initial hesitation it's not really coming back to her so fuck it.]

Fuck. Yeah, let's go.

[She grabs his hand, (yeah, duh, the injured one). He's already bleeding through the thoroughly insufficient cloth bandage a bit, and the spatter of red all around on the table cloth is just one more nudge to her cannibalistic hungry brain. She licks her lips and heads quickly for the nearest ball room exit.]

Hhah--!

[It's a breathless sound, one of pain; it hurts--in a good way, sharp and piercing, right through his hand and down his arm. She really didn't need to say anything--after her statement of hunger, this is the equivalent of grabbing him by the crotch.

He lets her drag him out of the room, superficially no different from any other pair of masked partygoers escaping the festivities in order to have a little party of their own.]

[The hurried scuttle back to her room with Foster in tow seems to be a conveniently shorter trip compared to when she headed TO the masquerade. Party City lending a helping hand once again. Still it's not an instant transportation, and by the time they arrive her head is swimming a bit from having straight up chugged that champagne. She drops Foster's hand after it takes her more than one attempt to get the key to do the thing, but within a few more seconds the door swings in.

She doesn't grab Foster again, instead just moving forward into the room. She grabs the desk chair that is conveniently near the door, and drags it over to the side of the bed. Then she flops down onto the mattress and just lays on it with her arms spread out for a second. Sssssoft. Nice.

Then with a grunt she props herself up on her elbows and tells Foster to get his ass over here with pointed eye contact, and a jerk of her head towards the chair.]

[They probably made a comical sight. Foster has several inches on Sophie, after all; being pulled by the arm, injury or not, requires a little bit of bending on his part. Bending he was glad to do--the fact that she's pressing her grip hard into his injury included. Sophie doesn't seem inclined to let go of his hand no matter how willingly he follows--nor would he want her to; the pain is addictive, and when she finally lets go, his nerves are bitten with a renewed sharpness of it, replacing the duller but hotter throb of pull and pressure. There is nothing quite like that kind of sensation, to him.

Once the door opens, he waits impatiently. Sophie dictates this scene; he obeys her direction without a word, though his own eagerness is visible in more ways than one.

For example: the way he unwraps his hand for her with clumsy, hasty fingers, only taking the time to marvel at the sight of his opened palm once the makeshift bandage walls away, the bared muscle and ligament revealed behind by the splitting of brown skin.

And, of course, the smearing of blood.

It's not that there's anything inherently erotic about drinking blood, though he's had plenty of partners who licked blood from his wounds before--and he enjoyed it. But there's something about Sophie's hunger for his blood that drives him crazy. In a good way. It's so thorough; so sincere. It's being used in the most carnal sense.

Of course, there's also a certain association at this point; the two of them have plenty of sex outside the context of her appetite for blood, but one appetite often begets another. Not always--but often enough.]

Edited 2017-03-25 22:02 (UTC)

[When he sits in the chair she sits up with only a very slight wobble. She grabs at his wrist, and pulls his hand towards her, really looking at the wound this time. The pressure and the bandage had been fairly effective at stopping the active bleeding, and the peripheral area is covered in drying blood. She starts at the very outer edges, licking up the thin fully dried layer and working her way inwards. She's thorough about it, even to the point of pulling his arm up and away from him to clean any excess that had dripped down towards his elbow. She gets between his fingers, around his wrist, both sides of his hand, and finally she pauses and leans away.

She studies his hand for a moment, then adjusts her hold on him. Her fingers press tightly against the back. She doesn't want both sides bleeding, or half of it would wind up on the floor. When she's satisfied that she got all the pre-spilled blood and that none is going to be wasted, it's time to work at the wound itself. It starts with long flat laps of her tongue on the palm side, coaxing the blood to start flowing again. Then once she can feel the blood welling to the surface she starts digging in. There's no need for her to use her teeth, she just tilts her head, presses her lips down along the cut and sucks. It makes a super gross noise. The fact that the cut goes all the way through means there's some air coming through too, which is...pretty weird to say the least. But the flow of blood is more than enough now that she's got it going, and she alternates between filling her mouth by suction, and digging her tongue into the hole to really appreciate his flavor.]

[Sophie's tongue runs up his forearm, her teeth only occasionally grazing his flesh in harmless passage while she works him over, between his fingers and over his wrist, before returning, carefully--painfully--around and into the mouth of his wound.

It had closed, more or less; his dead body is reluctant to bleed like it did in life. Wounds clot and die, his necromantic order only able to maintain a sputtering fascimile of the real thing. But with encouragement, it flows fresh--providing them both with a kind of sustenance, in the end.

There isn't really a word or series of words to describe the feeling of it; the way it hurts, her tongue and its muscles and its rough texture and the raw opened flesh. The way it hurts, her suction of blood out through the slit, the pressure and the feeling of movement at the surface, the heat of her mouth against exposed wound--

The sound it makes it so crude, so wet and disgusting.

He watches her feed, eyes locked on the sight, mouth just slightly open--transfixed.

But his right hand, which had been sweeping back repeatedly in his hair lets go now and drops to his lap; he leans back against the chair for a second before giving up on that and pressing his palm against the base of his cock, massaging it. His hand stays outside his trousers, but there's no mistaking it for what it is: he is fondling himself while watching Sophie ~~give oral to~~ suck the blood out of his open hand.]

Edited 2017-03-26 00:52 (UTC)

[Once she's satisfied she turns his hand over, gives the other side a few broad licks, then lets go of him and begins cleaning off the blood from her own hands.

Her senses are dulled, primarily by alcohol, and secondarily by how focused she was on her hunger and now her satisfaction. So she fails to notice Foster fondling himself until she's finished. By then he'd slipped his hand under his waistband and started jerking himself off properly. Her eyes flick towards his lap, and despite her earlier insistence that a) sex would be a bad idea and b) she could refuse to follow up after the feeding, she feels more than a slight twinge of arousal. Primarily she's an angry drunk, but for her aggravation, aggression, and arousal are pretty closely linked.

And man, she sure is aggravated by this whole damn situation.

And this, this was their ROUTINE. This part of their relationship was the easy shit. The GOOD shit. This wasn't her stupid and unreasonable need for Foster to be something he wasn't, do something he couldn't. This was her wanting exactly what he wanted. This was...well. This was why it had eventually built to the stupid one sided bullshit she was in now, but. But FUCK she didn't want to make it seem like anything was wrong, especially since it was 100% her fault. Okay well like 90% her fault and 10% a fucking cruel joke of fate itself. Besides, why the FUCK not okay? He's horny, she's on her way there, this is a bed and a room they don't have to clean.

Uuuuugh yeah okay that settles it, this is happening.

She slaps him, hard.]

Quit that. Get your hand re bandaged, strip, then get on the bed.

[She herself rolls over, (rather ungracefully), to get off of the bed on the other side. Her weird not quite a dress thing has some buckles that need fiddling with, as do her boots. She gets her mask off first though, chucking it unceremoniously to the side, then gets to work on her own clothes.]

Edited 2017-03-26 22:21 (UTC)

[Foster hadn't really made a conscious decision to progress from fondling to something more purposeful; it just happened that she hadn't stopped him. It felt good, but it could feel even better; and the more he gave, the more he wanted. The building sensation, the heady mixture of servitude and indulgence. Feeling--intensifying, rising, growing out of pain and pleasure.

Until her hand cracks across his face. The impact is so hard it literally stuns him, his masturbatory hand stilled by shock--just for a moment. Then the pain--and its thrill--kick in.

Rebandaging is difficult--more difficult, even, than its reverse. One-handed, shaky from arousal and impatience; he's been drooling, a thin strand of saliva runs from the corner of his mouth as he uses his teeth to hold the makeshift bandage in his place, saliva forcing him to bite down as he pulls it tight over his wound. The flesh of his hand is ashen from being drained, the inside of the laceration glistening with Sophie's saliva and a few stray drops of blood.

The bite of pain gives him another little rush as he knots it off--he strips quickly, his erection already painfully ready as he obeys Sophie's commands. He's almost shivering with excitement.]

[As is customary for them, Sophie keeps her bra and underwear on for the time being. She's thinking about what she wants from this, and for a second, about what Foster wants. If he knew he'd be mad. There'd been some turbulence between them in the past, (his future), around that. Which, okay fine whatever, avoid the fallout by avoiding the problem. What DOES she want?

She stands with her hands on her hips, scrutinizing him. Stress relief. She's not in a huge dom mood or anything. That kind of working him over, breaking him down, she certainly enjoyed it but it was a kind of work. Definitely had effort involved and took more...thinking and stuff than she's really super able to do right now. She's just horny. Horny and drunk. And he's had plenty of foreplay as it is during the feeding so like, whatever. Just tie him up and get to it.

Oh right uh...with what? This wasn't her house, there weren't just copious restraining mechanisms lying around in basically every room. This was a standard, if fancy, hotel room basically. Oh! Duh, right sheets, that's like. Go To improvised bondage. But wait, Foster's already on the bed, shit.]

No wait, get back up again.

[This is like some weird game of Simon Says. Like...Sexy Simon Says. Strip Simon Says would just encourage fucking up though, they'd have to modify the punishment/reward system somehow but LATER. Right now the agenda is bondage. Fairly gracelessly she yanks the comforter off the bed, then the sheet. She starts winding it up into a roughly rope like shape.]

Okay NOW, lie down. Hands up at the headboard.

[Foster isn't really going to argue with her right now, although he does track her every move as he obeys. Notably, though, he does obey her command to raise his hands to the headboard; he is more than willing to cooperate on the setup in order to hasten the transition to what is--for both of them--the payoff.]

[Watching Foster hop up and then flop back down again is pretty amusing, she can't lie. A stupid drunken smile falls over her face, and her gaze is pretty clearly fixed on Foster's crotch. Dicks are pretty hilarious to her, and watching Foster's bob and flop around as he moves isn't sexy in the least, it's just plain funny.

But okay, awkward logistical stuff is out of the way time to get down to it. She straddles him across his stomach, wrapping the sheet once around both wrists, then tying it sloppily around the headboard. It's not her best job at restraint, but it's tight enough. It's not like Foster tends to go against her wishes anyway. A decent chunk of time the bondage was really more ornamental or symbolic as opposed to functional.

Now it's time to get into it. She sits, resting all her body weight on Foster's skinny gangly frame. It's a weirdly effective form of breathplay for them, and provides a unique kind of pain for him. And she likes to feel him struggle between her thighs. Normally right about now she'd start some kind of dirty talk. Humiliation, or degradation, but she doesn't really feel up to that at the moment. Her mind is a soup of booze and trying to remember what should be off limits for now... So instead she just grinds her hips down, and puts one hand on his neck. She's always had claws technically, but on returning to her own world the glammor had hidden them from him, and now she finally has the chance to show them off. The points dig in. She has no intent of mauling him (tonight anyway), but this is her way of teasing the possibility. ]

Edited 2017-03-31 22:06 (UTC)

[It's not that Foster never tries to go against her wishes; his struggles, at a certain level of pain, can get pretty pitched. More to the point, there have been times--more distant to her than to him--when he felt he wasn't being punished enough.

Then, he really did challenge her.

Now, though, he's been behaving himself fairly well. He wants what she wants; isn't that the natural ideal? Her weight comes down on his ribs, crushing breath from his dead lungs; he can feel his ribs strain, his muscles protest. As she pushes down, he pushes against her, fighting for each (unnecessary) breath, squirming for space, for his chest to rise, for freedom.

But her hand closes over his throat, piercing claws digging points into the dead flesh, and a surge of heat in his groin--excitement, anticipation, a thrill both physical and otherwise--his hips buck, just a little, twin beads of of saliva trickling down the corners of his mouth.]

More--

[He chokes, gasps wetly.]

More. Choke the life out of me! H...hhhhgk. Crush my ribs--like you mean it!

⇨ THE MASQUERADE

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and thus marks the first appearance of actual chatspeak in Sophie's internal monologue.

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We gonna move this soon, or keep it here?

WARNING: this gets super nsfw from here on

ya they nasty.

This thread was YOUR idea, all shame is on you

shame on me is water on a duck's back you know that

I don't have icons for this kind of thing. Whoops.....?

when we get to the sex part I'm probably just gonna start using her default over and over.

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